"Yes," said Elizabeth faintly.

"He's tarrible took wi' me, mind ye,"--she looked archly at her listener,--"but ah'm no sae saft as to be took wi' men, ma' la.s.s.

Ah've seen lots o' them in ma' day." She paused and smiled reminiscently as though reviewing past conquests; and, looking at her bright eyes and pink cheeks and the waves of her once abundant hair, Elizabeth could not but imagine that many hearts lay strewn along Auntie Jinit's past.

"Ye see, it's this way, la.s.sock: Ah've jist got to mak' ma' way in the warld. Wully is a kind brither, but the hoose is too fu' already. An'

the bairns are aye merryin' here an merryin' there, an' yon daft Peter 'll be bringin' yon harum-scarum girl o' yours in ane o' thae days--not but that she's a guid honest la.s.s, but ah dinna see whit he wants wi'

an Eerish thing like yon; an' the land jist owerrun wi' guid Scotch la.s.sies that ye ken a' aboot wha their faethers an' mithers were."

"But Sarah Emily will make Peter a fine wife, Auntie Jinit," exclaimed Elizabeth loyally. "Aunt Margaret has spared no pains to make her clean and tidy and saving----"

"Hoots havers! Ah ken yon. But there's nae cleanin' nor scrubbin' nor washin' that'll scour the Eerish oot o' a body, la.s.s, mind ye that.

But niver mind her. Ye see, when Wully an' Betsey gets auld ah'll be left on their hands. Aye, an' ah'll be auld masel then, and, it's high time ah wes pittin' ma best fit foremost an' settlin' masel." She paused, and the shrewd, business-like air fell from her. Her eyes grew somber, she looked far away down the crimson and golden vista of Champlain's Road.

"Ah'd no be left this way, la.s.sie, gin ma' lad, Tam, had been spared me. He wes oor only bairn, an' ah sometimes think the Lord surely micht a' left me him. But He kens best," she sighed brokenly, "aye, aye, He kens best. But it wes a hard day for me the last time they brocht ma Tam to me. He'd jist gaed awa wi' the lads aefter his supper, an' it wes no an oor, till they brocht ma bairnie hame drooned.

An' ah couldna even see his bonny face. He'd fallen aff a bridge, an'

bruised it that bad. Aye, aye,"--a big sigh came again convulsively,--"an' his faether not deid a month. Ma Tam wes sax feet in his socks--a bonny lad, an' eh, eh, sik a guid laddie to his mither."

Elizabeth felt a lump rising in her throat. She stroked the black alpaca arm next her in silent sympathy. Auntie Jinit fumbled in her black leather bag, and brought out a neatly folded handkerchief with which she wiped away the tear that had slipped down her cheek. There was a long silence.

"So ye see, Lizzie, la.s.s," she said at length, her voice still thrilled with the sorrow of her great motherless, "ye see, la.s.sie, ah've naebody but Wully an' Betsey to look to. Ma Jeams left me a wee bit siller, but it's no enough gin a wes pit oot in the warld, an' if Wully slips awa' ah canna say whit'll happen--so ah must look for a hame, ye ken.

An' there's this ane ah kin have." She tossed her head towards the receding farm-house. The coquettish all-sufficient air was returning.

"Oh, yes; but, Auntie Jinit," said Elizabeth very gently, "you know--he--Mr. Martin, you know, he's a little--well, the neighbors say he's rather disagreeable at home."

"Hits!" said Auntie Jinit lightly. "He couldna be ony waur than the man ah had. Ah'm no feared but ah'll manage _him_." She drew her mouth up into a firm line, and Elizabeth looked at her, forced to admiration. Certainly Mrs. McKerracher was a many-sided woman--and one perfectly capable of taking care of herself. "But ah'm wantin' ye, la.s.sie," she lowered her voice, "jist to speak quiet like to Maister Coulson. Ah want to know jist how _he's_ fixed." She pointed with her thumb towards the big, red brick house of Jake Martin. "He tells me braw tales aboot his siller, but ah'm jalousin' he's no tae be trusted.

The first time he cam' sparkin', he tauld me he wes jist fufty-sax, an'

then ah catchet him up aboot hoo auld he wes the time he cam' to these pairts, an' anither time ah got it oot o' him hoo lang yon wes afore the railroad wes pit in to Cheemaun, an' a rin it up in ma mind, an' ah calcalate he was saxty-siven. Noo yon's a tarrible descreepancy, ye ken, so ah says to masel, ah'll be up sides wi' ye, ma lad. Naebody's got the better o' Jinit Johnstone yet, an' naebody's gaun tae; an' ah thocht Maister Coulson could jist tell me if the lads hae ony hand on the ferm--lawyer bodies kens a' aboot thae things--an' whit a wife's portion is, gin he should slip awa. An' ax him tae, whit ma rights 'll be. Ah've got a buggie, ye ken, an' a coo o' ma ain', foreby a settin'

o' Plymouths, an' ah'm to have a horse, he says, to drive to Cheemaun--ah got that oot o' him in writin' an' he didna ken whet ah wes up to. But ah'd like to ken jist hoo much ah'm to expact. Ah'm no goin' to leap an' look aefterwards."

Elizabeth listened with mixed feelings. Auntie Jinit was not so much to be pitied after all. It would seem that Nemesis was after Jake Martin all right; but suppose she caught Susie too, and the younger one still at home? What would become of Susie if her stepmother secured her "rights"?

"I--I hope," she ventured hesitatingly, "that you'll get all you want, Auntie Jinit, but poor Susie and Charlie have slaved there for years and it would be cruel to turn them out."

The woman turned and looked at Elizabeth with a flash of her brilliant eyes. "An' d'ye think ah'd do yon?" she exclaimed indignantly. "Eh, eh, la.s.sie, it's no Jinit Johnstone wad ill use a bairn. If there's onything we kin dae in this warld we suld dae it, and there's Jake Martin's bairns need a mither if ever onybody did--aye, for they niver had ane yit, ah misdoot--jist a pair drudge that hadna the s.p.u.n.k to protect her ain. But ah'm no that kind. Aye, but ah'm no!"

Elizabeth, looking at her, could not doubt her--neither could she doubt that Susie and the younger Martins would fare well at Auntie Jinit's hands.

"What about church, Auntie Jinit?" she asked teasingly. "Mr. Martin won't go to Dr. Murray since Tom Teeter goes--you'll have to turn Methody!"

The lady gave her a rea.s.suring look out of the corner of her eye. "No likely," she said, with a setting of her firm mouth. "Dinna ye fear for me. He's gaun to Maister Murray--an' no sik a late date neither."

She smiled slyly and her eyes twinkled. "He ses tae me, ses he, 'Ah dinna like ye in black,' ses he, 'Ah'd like to see ye in somethin'

that's mair spicy,' ses he. An' ses ah, 'Weel, if ah hed a nice braw husband to gang to the kirk wi' me foreby, it's a braw spicy goon ah'd be wearin'--an' ah'm thinkin' o' gettin' a gray poplin the day, mebby.'

An' he's promised to come--gin ah merry him--but ah'm jist no sure yet."

It was impossible to describe the air of youthful coquetry and mischief mixed with hard determination and a.s.surance of triumphant power that beamed in Auntie Jinit's eyes. The most successful society belle, accomplished in all the arts of refined flirtation, might have envied her that glance.

Elizabeth arrived at Annie's white-pillared house bursting with mirth.

She described the interview to John Coulson at the mid-day meal in such a diverting manner that he roared with laughter, and declared he would undertake Auntie Jinit's cause and tie up Jake so tight financially that he would never be able to spend five cents again without permission.

Elizabeth took full possession of the Vision during her visit. It was well she was willing to accept the position of nurse, for he welcomed her with leaps and squeals of joy, and wept loudly and bitterly whenever she dared leave him. His mother was relieved greatly by her sister's help. For Mrs. John Coulson was suffering from the chronic housekeeping malady, an incompetent maid. A faithful servant of two years' standing had gone off in a temper the week before because her mistress had announced that henceforth they should have dinner at six o'clock in the evening. Everyone on Sunset Hill had evening dinners and Annie had long felt the disgrace of their mid-day meal. But social eminence, she discovered, was dearly bought, for the faithful Bella immediately departed, declaring "she'd wash pots and pans for no living woman on nights when her gentleman friends was calling." Her successor was a leisurely young lady with an elaborate dressing of hair, who could not have got dinner a minute earlier than six o'clock in the afternoon in any case, and the Coulsons were now fashionable and uncomfortable.

During the week preceding Estella's reception, the young lady visited Elizabeth frequently to report progress. Preparations were going forward on a grand scale, and the plan to "show the Olivers" had expanded into "showing Cheemaun" what might be done in the way of an up-to-date social function.

Others of Elizabeth's old schoolmates called, but Madeline Oliver was not one of the number. Horace, however, had not forgotten his old allegiance, and often dropped in of an evening with a box of candy to sit on the veranda with Elizabeth and tell her how badly his father was using him in still keeping him at school. When Elizabeth was perfectly honest with herself she was forced to confess that Horace bored her, and she wished he would stay away and let her play with Baby Jackie.

On the other hand, it was very nice to sit on their white-pillared veranda with him and see the other girls pa.s.s. For, as Estella had pointed out, it was so poky and slow to be like Madeline Oliver and never have a boy come near you, and whatever Beth did, she warned, she was not to get like that.

"But boys don't like me," Elizabeth explained dolefully, "and Horace is awfully tiresome; now, Stella, isn't he?"

"Why, no, I think he's heaps of sport if you just know how to take him, Beth," Estella declared. "But you don't know how to treat boys. Now, when you're sitting here on the veranda in the evening, and any of the fellows pa.s.s, why don't you call to them, and ask them something, or go down to the gate and talk about the lacrosse matches or the regatta.

All the boys like to talk sport. You just try it."

But Elizabeth did not follow this wise advice. It had quite the wrong effect, for when she sat alone on the steps of an evening, and some of her old boy schoolmates pa.s.sed, the remembrance of Estella's admonitions made her turn her back and pretend she did not see them, or even rise and retreat indoors. But she had plenty of company, for she was very popular with her girl friends, and Horace saved her from Estella's entire disapproval.

"I was telling Aunt Jarvis you were here, Beth," he said one evening as he pa.s.sed the chocolates to Mrs. Coulson. Annie looked interested. "I suppose Mrs. Jarvis would not recognize Elizabeth now," she said tentatively.

"She said she'd like to see her. Why don't you come and call on aunt, and bring her?" asked the boy.

But Mistress Annie knew better than that, and made some vague excuse.

She well knew that Elizabeth would not be a welcome visitor just now at the house with the triple pillars. And so the days went by, and though the lady on whom Elizabeth's hopes were supposed to depend was only a few streets away, she did not see her, and Mrs. Coulson, remembering her aunt's admonitions, was forced to wait for the reception.

CHAPTER XIII

GETTING INTO SOCIETY AND OUT

At last the day of Estella's coming-out--the day Elizabeth was to meet her fairy G.o.d-mother once more--arrived. When the Vision was finally tucked away into his crib for his afternoon nap, and the leisurely young lady warned again and again to watch him carefully, Elizabeth dressed in the required white gown with the blue ribbons, and, with Annie looking very sweet and youthful in John Coulson's favorite shade of dove-gray, set off down the shady streets towards the Raymond home.

It was a hot, still afternoon, one of those days that seem left over from August which so often descend upon the coolness of October. The long rows of maples that bordered the street hung their scarlet banners motionless in the sultry air. The sky, a hazy warm blue, seemed much nearer the earth than usual. Away down at the end of each leafy avenue Lake Cheemaun lay like a silver mirror. As they crossed a dusty street on the hilltop, Elizabeth could see a little crimson and golden island reflected perfectly in the gla.s.sy depths. Another street gave a picture of a yellow elm, with an oriole's empty nest depending from a drooping branch. It hung over the roadway, making a golden curtain through which gleamed the blue and silver.

Elizabeth sighed happily, and, as was her habit, fell into the mood of the day, listless, languorous. She strolled along, all unmindful of the dust on her new slippers, and of Estella's reception, until her sister recalled her to the business of the afternoon by declaring that they must hurry, for they were already late.

"It's fortunate I wasn't asked to play cards, or we'd have to be there sharp at four."

"I suppose Stella 'll turn it into a garden-party, won't she?" murmured Elizabeth, gazing far down the street at a motionless sail on the silver mirror--standing like a painted ship on a painted lake. "It's so lovely out of doors."

"A garden-party, oh, no! That's dreadfully old-fashioned," said Annie solemnly. "No one in Cheemaun would dare to give one now. This is to be a Bridge--partially, but Mrs. Raymond is asking a great many other people who are old-fashioned like me, and won't play, so they are to come late and remain in the drawing-room while the players sit in the library."

"It's like dividing the sheep from the goats," said Elizabeth frivolously. "Aren't you sorry just to be a sheep, Ann? It's so old-fashioned." Annie laughed uncertainly. She never quite understood Elizabeth, and felt she ought to rebuke her frivolity. "No, I'm not.

What would become of Baby if his mother----"

"Turned goat? But say, I'd love to learn just to see what it was like to go out every day and be a--what is it?--a social success. I believe that is what Aunt Margaret would like."

Annie rebuked her gently. She was always just a little afraid of Lizzie. The wild streak seemed to be in abeyance lately, but it might break out in a new form any day.

Their arrival at the Raymond home forbade her admonishing her at any length. It was a beautiful house--a fine red brick with white porch pillars, of course, and surrounded by a s.p.a.cious lawn dotted with shrubbery and flower-beds. Its only drawback was its position, it being placed on the wrong side of Elm Crescent, the street bordering Sunset Hill. In consequence the Raymonds had suffered somewhat from social obscurity, and this At Home was partially to serve the purpose of raising them nearer the level of the proud homes on the hilltop.

Elizabeth became suddenly shy and nervous as she followed her sister up the broad steps and saw the rooms crowded with fashionably dressed people. She was not generally conscious of her clothes, but she could not help feeling, as she glanced over the sea of bonnets and hats and white kid gloves, that her muslin dress and blue ribbons must look very shabby indeed. And somehow Annie had become transformed. Upon starting out she had appeared to be the very pattern of fashionable elegance. Now she looked like a demure little gray nun. Elizabeth felt that neither of them was likely to make any impression upon Mrs.